


I was a spark, you were the wind I claimed

by coffeeandchemicals



Series: Let us step into the darkness [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Character Study, Childhood Trauma, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Neil Hargrove's A+ Parenting, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Post-Season/Series 02, Suicidal Thoughts, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:48:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24706336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandchemicals/pseuds/coffeeandchemicals
Summary: Billy needs help. He needs Steve to stay. He just has to get the words out.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Series: Let us step into the darkness [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1794769
Comments: 10
Kudos: 123





	I was a spark, you were the wind I claimed

**Author's Note:**

> Hi folks! First fanfic ever. But I've been a reader for a very long time. Tags pretty much cover all the trigger warnings - one passing reference to suicide. Please let me know if I missed something. 
> 
> I hope everyone is doing okay!

Jaws clench – unconsciously at first – only when he realizes he’s doing it does he realize how much strain is on his teeth. Can teeth take this much pressure? Can his jaw? But to try to force them open takes more effort than he thinks he can muster. Inertia is so hard to overcome.

Say something. Say _anything_. 

Why is this so hard? 

He can feel the words building up, piling against his teeth, forming a lump in his throat. All the things he can picture saying – the eloquence and articulation that lives in his brain but can’t seem to pass the barrier into real life. If he lets the words out, they’ll just trip over each other. They’ll just hang in the air. They’ll just echo in his mind, growing louder, louder, louder. Louder. Until they’re all he can hear. Until they’re deafening.

But he’ll have said something. Anything. And then, maybe, Steve will stay. Maybe he’ll keep looking at him with those open guileless brown eyes. Those eyes that crinkle at the corners as if he’s bestowed countless smiles in his short life. As if his smiles cost him nothing. And Billy wants one. Just one. One smile that is all his – one he can hold onto, even for a short time. A few seconds. But. 

But Steve won’t give him anything unless he opens his mouth. He needs to continue this battle of give and take. And right now, Billy is just taking. He doesn’t know how to give. 

Come on. Come on. Come _on_. 

Just say something. One word. How hard is it to just say something? But. 

But he can see Steve already shifting back on his feet. But he can see Steve glance first left, then right. But he can see that furrow already developing between his eyebrows – weariness and wariness and a flash of something darker – shame? Fear? Sadness? Despair? Anger? – floods into Steve’s eyes. And.

And, well, Billy recognizes that.

He’s seen it so often on his own face. Once he’s able to pull himself together after Neil has gone after him. Once he’s built up the wherewithal – overcome the inertia – to move from whatever sad heap Neil’s left him in to the bathroom. Once he’s locked the door and calmed down enough to slowly – _carefully_ – strip off his shirt to look at himself. This usually takes longer than he thinks because his hands are shaking so much and he’s biting his lip – clenching his jaw – to stop little gasps of pain from escaping.

Only then does Billy look at his injuries in the mirror.

Neil doesn’t often hit him in his face – Billy is grateful for that because sometimes – most of the time – he can’t even make eye contact with himself. He’ll skirt around his face and look at his ribs, at his back, his arms – cataloguing the bruises (new layered on old – purple and blue bursting through a sea of yellow), the cuts (if Neil forgot to take off his high school ring), the abrasions (when Neil has decided to drag him from the living room to Billy’s bedroom), the swelling (the thing that Billy is especially cognizant of – swelling can mean broken bones or internal bleeding or something else equally bad), and the blood. So, Billy will catalogue, mentally tally the new injuries with the old. He’ll clean himself up the best he can. 

And. 

And then. 

And then maybe.

Maybe he’ll look himself in the eye. 

Maybe. 

Because he knows what he’ll see when he meets them. They won’t show the sense of loose relaxation, carefree attitude, coupled with a slightly wicked sense of mirth that he’s been able to project for the last five years of his life – a carefully cultivated façade that he puts in place each morning and removes each night. No. His eyes will be flat, dead, disgusted. Because, no matter how hard he’s tried, Billy can’t lie to himself. His judging eyes will always be there to remind him that he is a ‘stupid fucking faggot who will accomplish nothing in his life’ and that he needs to learn ‘respect and responsibility’. And that maybe, on the very bad nights, he’s better off dead. 

Thanks, Neil. 

Billy has tried so hard to make himself small, quiet, weak. Vulnerable. Submissive. He’s almost an adult, almost a _man_. Ha. A year ago, he tried once to stand up to Neil. Tried to exude bravado, fearlessness, the epitome of alpha-male. He tried to stand his ground. But. 

But Neil just hit him harder – broke Billy’s arm from twisting it up behind his back, cracked enough ribs that he’d had to take shallow breaths for weeks, and gave him the worst concussion he’d ever had (he’d been throwing up for days). 

They’d moved to Hawkins not long after that. 

Thanks, Neil.

Don’t worry. Billy’s received the message loud and clear. Be quiet. Tiptoe on eggshells. Whisper. Don’t make eye contact. Shove everything down. It’s all an act.

Billy’s whole life is an act – switching from the meek, fearful kid (with anger roiling just beneath the surface) to the brash, rude, loud jock (with anger roiling just beneath the surface). He needs more practice though, because Neil can sense that anger even though he tries to beat it out of him. He needs more practice though because that anger keeps ruining the ‘loose relaxation’ Billy’s been trying to project. It bursts out at inopportune moments – on the court, with Max, that night in November with Steve. It makes him look crazy. He’s definitely aware of that. But he can’t control it. And. 

And he’s just so tired. So tired. So defeated.

And he can’t remember who he’s supposed to be. He can’t remember who he was. He doesn’t know who he is without the act. Maybe he’s lost himself completely. Maybe he’s just anger in human form. But.

But anger is better than anything else, right? Better than pain? Revulsion? Fear?

Better than happiness? 

Joy?

Billy tries not to think about that because he doesn’t deserve happiness. He doesn’t even remember what happiness feels like. Does everyone feel this way?

Does Steve feel this way?

Billy looks at Steve again – he’s surprised Steve’s still there. Billy doesn’t know how long he’s been in his own head. But. 

But Steve’s still waiting for Billy’s answer. Billy doesn’t even know what Steve asked him. The little crease is still between his eyebrows. Billy wants to reach out and touch it with his thumb – he wants to smooth it away. He wants it so badly it physically hurts. He _wants_.

“Billy,” Steve says, probably for like the fourth time, given his uncertain tone and his skittish eyes. Steve’s expression has shifted again – he’s looking for an escape – it makes Billy feel sick. 

Come on. How hard is it to make a sound? Even just clear your throat. Come on. 

He tries to reach out, but his arms are lead weights. They’re going to pull him to the ground. He’ll just be a Billy-shaped puddle – unable to maintain form around that anger. But maybe then the anger will be able to slip away, and he’ll just be nothing. He’ll be a void. Maybe Steve could fill him up with something. Something other than anger or pain or disgust. 

He thinks that if Steve could just touch him now maybe he’d be okay. Because he’s being starved – words, sounds, touch – the longer he waits, the harder it gets to get any sustenance. Just Neil and Neil’s anger sustain him. 

Is everyone like this?

And there’s Steve, brown eyes, open and wide. Does he not feel this way? Is his life easy enough that he can say what he wants when he wants? Does he have to rely on others to fill him up? No, probably not. If so, Steve wouldn’t be reaching out after everything that happened between them. Steve wouldn’t be staring at him as if Billy was a wounded animal about to bolt. Steve wouldn’t be looking at him at all. 

“Billy,” Steve says again, and he’s reaching his arm out to touch Billy’s shoulder. It’s as if he’s seen into Billy’s brain, been privy to Billy’s thoughts, understood Billy’s longing. 

Touch me, touch me. Touch me. Please. Please. _Please_. 

But Steve doesn’t. He lets his arm hang in the air for a minute, hovering over Billy’s shoulder. Billy can almost feel the heat from his palm. 

Steve’s eyes are sad and his mouth is downturned as he pulls back and Billy feels like the air has been sucked from his chest. And Steve’s turning away. He’s going to leave. He’s going to leave Billy alone. Alone with his anger. Alone with his despair. Alone with Neil. 

Wait. 

Wait. 

Please don’t go. I don’t know how to keep going without you. Please sustain me. Please. I need help. Please.

Wait.

Wait.

“Wait.” Billy’s voice burst out. It’s gruff and breathy at the same time. The force needed to overcome that inertia was monstrous. And Billy’s left weak, shuddering, hollow. 

“Please.” Billy doesn’t even know what he’s asking for. But he says it again, “please.” And the word is so soft it’s just a breath. Billy would be surprised if Steve’s even heard it. 

Steve gently rests his hand on Billy’s shoulder and Billy just slumps – his form slips as some of his anger escapes. But Steve’s holding him up. And Steve meets his eyes and smiles. It’s open and caring. 

“I got you,” Steve says, as he tightens his grip on Billy’s shoulder. “It’s okay.” 

And then a moment later, Steve adds, “Just breathe.” And.

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from [Step into the Darkness](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EeuICRNMqRg) by Said the Whale.
> 
> Any feedback is greatly appreciated.
> 
> Beta'd by the wonderful [red_plaid_on_red_plaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_plaid_on_red_plaid)


End file.
